


Something so precious

by narada-talis (sarensen)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Season/Series 07, beauty and the beast mashup, hanahaki-like disease, season 08 doesn't exist, some keith whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23925988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarensen/pseuds/narada-talis
Summary: Beast Syndrome (noun):1. a non-infectious disease of unknown origin, affecting victims suffering from one-sided love. Symptoms manifest as a living tattoo of a rose that appears over the victim’s heart. Every day the victim’s love remains unrequited, the rose loses one petal. Should all the petals fall and the victim’s love remain one-sided, the disease will result in their death.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 173





	Something so precious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yess23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yess23/gifts).



At first, Keith thinks he's getting a cold.

The symptoms are similar: headache, chills, weakness of the body. Head spinning when he turns too quickly. He drinks some orange juice and tries to shake it off; he's been sick before. Besides, they have more important things to focus on: rumours of renewed Galra activity on the borders of Coalition space have started reaching them, and the Atlas has been deployed to take care of the situation.

The journey is long, even for the capabilities of the Atlas and Voltron Lions. It takes its toll on all of them, like all extended space travel does. They get tired, bored in the cramped spaces of the Atlas. The Lions get restive in the hull, rumbling in the back of the Paladins' minds.

They're passing through the dark space between two massive nebulae one day when Keith finds himself sitting alone at one of the bolted tables in the mess halls.

He pushes food around on his plate, head propped up in one hand. He isn't really hungry - hasn't been, for the past few days. He knows he has to eat, knows how important it is to keep up his strength for the battles that are surely coming. It's just that the food seems tasteless, lately. A special kind of bland that makes everything turn to ash on his tongue.

One of the big holoscreens hovering just in front of the far wall displays a live feed of the Atlas' command center. Keith finds his eyes drawn to it constantly, every time that familiar flash of silver hair appears in the image.

He watches Shiro moving around the bridge, checking the screens of the officers stationed around the command platform and issuing inaudible orders. He walks tall, straight backed, face bathed in the ethereal blue glow emanating from his arm. The others flow around him like water around a rock.

In many ways, Keith thinks, he _is_ the proverbial rock of the Atlas, the constant reassuring presence that everything will turn out alright no matter how bad things get. Everyone looks up to him, respects him. Keith remembers Adam once telling him that everyone who meets Shiro falls in love with him a little bit. He's just one of those people you can't help giving your heart to, even though he never asks for it. Watching him move around on the bridge, his easy smile and the friendly touches on the shoulders of people who have come to trust him implicitly, Keith believes it.

A hard clap on the back brings Keith back to reality, and his face dangerously close to his plate of food goo. "Wh--! Hey!"

"Hey, Mullet," Lance grins, swinging long legs over the bench and sliding in next to him. The noise of the mess hall flows back in around Keith; the clink of cutlery and the soft hum of conversation.

"Great," Keith mutters. The last thing he wants is to talk to _this guy_ right now. "What do you want, Lance?"

"Can't a guy just hang with his bro?" Lance says, pressing a hand to his chest with a fake hurt expression, "Just two bros? Hanging?"

Keith doesn't deign that with an answer, going back to poking at his goo with his fork. His eyes flicker up to the screen beyond his control when Shiro steps into view again, then go back to his food when he disappears.

"Seriously, though." Lance's voice goes quiet, somber like it only does when he needs everyone to know he's not joking. "You okay?"

"Fine," Keith says, not looking up from his food.

"Where's your jacket, man? Everyone's supposed to be in uniform on the Atlas." He pokes at Keith's black T-shirt.

"Too hot." Keith shrugs. In truth, the uniform jacket had been stifling. The high collar had choked him, the material had scratched his skin, and the sleeves had felt confining.

"We were all just--"

"Lance," Keith snaps, putting his spoon down a little too hard in a sudden flash of irritation. "Just. Go away."

Lance blinks, the hurt on his face not fake this time. "Jeez. Okay. Sorry." He slides off the bench and leaves with a last glance at Keith over his shoulder, going to join his sister and Acxa at their table on the other side of the hall.

Keith frowns at his plate. He didn't mean to snap at Lance like that. One part of him feels bad about it, sincerely guilty at hurting his friend. But the other part - the bigger part - just feels empty. Stomach churning, he gets up, abandoning his untouched plate of food goo.

Maybe it's time for a break. Maybe he just needs to get some sleep. Maybe the rest will help him feel better.

***

He wakes up from his nap in a cold sweat, body aching and wracked with chills. It takes three tries for him to push himself upright. His arm quiver, weak. His hair clings to his forehead, shirt drenched with sweat. His throat feels dry, tongue swollen.

Worst of all is the pain in his chest. It's a sharp, stinging sensation; a knife lancing into the space between his ribs. His skin alternately burns and crawls with the feeling of hundreds of tiny little insect feet scuttling over it.

He claws at his T-shirt, tearing it over his head. His eyes fly down.

Where his chest had been pale and unmarked before, it now carries a brand: directly over his heart, its outlines red and raw and burning, is a tattoo of a perfect, budding rose. A crown of black thorns encases it, its sharp and vicious circle twining above the petals and below the delicate stem.

He goes cold, hand poised in a claw just over the mark.

"No."

He shakes his head. "No."

He knows what the rose is. What it _means_. Everyone does.

It's a disease, magical in nature, almost incurable, and fatal. It means he's in love. It means he's going to die.

The rose just appears, sometimes. No one knows where it originated, or how it spreads. It seems to choose its victims at random; a curse for the unlucky and the doomed - unlucky enough to fall in love with someone who doesn't love them back, and doomed to die because of it.

Some people call it Beast Syndrome, because of the way the disease progresses. Others call it nothing at all, and choose to die in silence and solitude rather than reveal their ill fate to the one who caused it.

Keith's been in love with Shiro since he was fifteen.

At first, it was nothing more than a teenage crush, safe in that he knew it could never be real. In that he 'knew' Shiro was straight, and would never return his affections. And then he found out about Shiro's relationship with Adam, and it changed everything.

By then, it was already too late; Keith never worked up the courage to confess to Shiro, never dreamed of coming in between him and Adam.

When they got engaged, Keith celebrated with them, and went back to his dorm room alone afterwards. And when they broke up, Keith knew he had to be there for Shiro as a friend, that it wasn't the right time.

It was never the right time.

And then Shiro went to Kerberos and disappeared for a year, and Keith's world ended. And even after he got him back he was too shocked to have him beside him again - too desperate to _keep_ him - to let something like a confession of one-sided love drive a wedge between them.

But inside of Keith, it kept growing and growing, as painful as it was beautiful.

And now, it's taken on its final form. The cursed rose. Soon, the living tattoo will grow into a blooming flower, Keith's death outlined in thirty perfect, red petals over his heart. With each passing day his love remains unrequited, a petal will fall.

The last petal, his last day.

He crushes the skin under the rose together in his fist, breathing hard. In his imagination, the thorns surrounding it spear into his fingers.

"Shiro..."

***

It takes them two more weeks to reach the fringes of Coalition-controlled space.

The rose blooms, petals flaring open like the twirling skirt of a dancer, and then starts to wither.

Keith hardly leaves his room during this time. He starts losing track of things - when he last ate, when he last saw another member of the crew - but never of the passage of time. On his chest, the procession of days is marked more conclusively than on any calendar. Fourteen petals cascade down his chest, a delicate trail of red swirling in a fading spiral toward his hip.

It would be beautiful if it didn't represent the slow yet inevitable march toward his death.

He hasn't ever given much thought to the things he wants out of life. The places he'd wanted to travel to and the things he'd wanted to do as a child paled in comparison to the things he'd actually seen and done growing up - going to space, leading Voltron, winning the war for the Universe. He's lived a life so much more amazing than anything he could have ever imagined. It's had its ups and downs, but for the most part, he's gotten more than he ever dreamed of.

Except for one thing.

Eventually, his stomach rumbles hard enough for him to pry himself out of bed. He knows the Atlas has been doing what it can to make him comfortable. Even now, the temperature in his room adjusts itself, becoming blessedly cool on his overheated skin. The lights brighten fractionally so he can see where he's going, but not enough to worsen his headache.

The Atlas is trying.

He ends up in the bathroom. He's been here a lot lately, staring at himself in the mirror, at the almost imperceptible movement of another petal detaching itself from the rose tattoo. By tonight, it will have started its slow spiral down, gradually losing its color until it fades completely near his hip. Around the rose, the thorns have lengthened, lethal barbs edging closer and closer to the heart of the flower.

He pulls on a clean T-shirt over his Garrison-issue pants. His movements are jerky, every muscle in his body aching. He combs his hair and brushes his teeth mechanically, and by the time he leaves, he looks almost like his old self.

Even so, people stare. Keith can take it. As long as it's not the other Paladins, he can take it. They don't know him well enough to take too much notice, and even if they did, none would dare confront him about it. Not so for his friends. Hunk would probably try to force him to eat something. Pidge would try and convince him to go to the med bay. Allura would probably bodily carry him there. Lance would insult his looks, and then ask if he could help. And Shiro...

Keith dodges the worried frowns of the MFE pilots passing the other way, heading toward the training rooms. Even the Atlas crew, whom he's never really spoken to, whisper among themselves as he passes.

It's fine. He just needs to get some food and water and he can escape back to his room. He just needs to avoid the other Paladins for a few more minutes.

Because the universe hates him, he turns the next corner and runs head-first into Shiro.

Pain spikes upward from the tattoo straight into the back of his head at the contact, white dots exploding in his vision. He doubles over and clutches at his chest, unable to stop the choked gasp from escaping his throat.

Shiro's big hand lands on his shoulder, the touch familiar. "Hey, Keith..." he starts, concern coloring his voice, "Are you--"

Keith shoves the hand off his shoulder at the flare of pain wracking his body. He doesn't intend the violence in the movement; doesn't actually mean to do it at all. But his reflexes take over, and he pushes Shiro away, gasping a breath of relief as the spasm induced by the touch subsides.

Shiro actually takes a step back, and not because Keith physically moved him. His face is drawn tight in shock, brow lined with worry. "Keith..."

And Keith can't stand to hear the distress in his voice, the worry for him so plainly clear in the way he says his name.

"Sorry." he mumbles, pressing his hands into his pockets and inching around Shiro in the narrow corridor.

"Keith, wait." Long fingers curl around his arm, just above the elbow. The touch is soft, not strong enough to hold him in place. His grip is weak, almost as though he doesn't want to hurt Keith.

Keith clenches his jaw against the ripples of pain emanating from under Shiro's hand.

"You're not okay." Shiro says. "You're so pale, and you've lost weight. I-- we never see you anymore."

He doesn't need to say, ' _I'm worried about you'_. The way he's still holding on to Keith's arm, long past the point that would usually be appropriate between friends, says it for him.

Keith aches, and not only from the pain caused by the tattoo. He wants nothing more in that moment than to go to Shiro, to throw himself into his arms and bury his face in his neck like he's dreamed about so many times.

He wants nothing more than to tell Shiro what's going on.

Shiro would try to help. He always does. Keith knows there's nothing he wouldn't do for him. He'd lay down his own life if Keith asked him to.

Which is exactly why he can't tell him. Shiro can't help. Not with this. Not when he's the cause.

Keith takes Shiro's wrist, deliberately gentle, and pulls it away from his arm. He lets go of it a bit too quickly, the joints of his fingers aching. "I'm fine," he says, keeping his eyes somewhere on the buttons of Shiro's uniform jacket. "Just a cold."

With that, he turns and walks back to his room, appetite lost.

***

The blaring of a klaxon jerks Keith out of his dream. He sits up, heart pounding, and for a second he isn't really sure where he is. The room is dark but for brief flashes of bare walls and rumpled sheets, bathed red in the emergency lights.

Shiro's voice over the intercom pulls him back to reality: "All personnel to battle stations. Prepare to attack!"

Keith's body switches to autopilot. Adrenaline momentarily overrides his pain, and before he knows it he's dressed and out the door, knife at the ready in one hand. The run to the Lions' hangar exhausts him, however, and by the time he reaches it he's out of breath, leaning against the wall to keep himself steady. It's bright, here, and loud with the thrum of crew members running to their posts. The planet they're about to attack is nothing more than a plain-looking brown orb on the holoscreens lining the corridor walls. It would seem almost peaceful were it not for the swarm of Galra fighters thronging in its orbit.

Keith escapes to the cold silence of the Lions' hangar, sinking to the floor just inside. Somehow, he's the first to arrive. He presses his head back against the wall and licks dry lips, staring through slitted eyes at the Black Lion.

In the back of his mind, Black's presence is like a weight, its heavy anticipation pulling at his consciousness. When he focuses on it, the Lion fills his mind, dragging at his every thought. Tendrils of psychic energy strain toward him, yearning to connect, itching to become one with its Paladin and fly to war.

Even from this distance, far from his pilot's seat in the cockpit and detached from the psychic link, it's overwhelming. Keith squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of vertigo as his energy wavers toward Black. With his reserves already dangerously low, he fears the Lion may demand more from him than he has left to give.

The pounding of footsteps in the hallway announces the arrival of the other Paladins. Keith straightens, using the wall to help him up. The others are predictably excited, all but trembling with the same nervous energy Keith felt when the alarm woke him. That energy now feels like nothing more than an echo in his extremities, a distant tingle like pins and needles in the very tips of his fingers.

"Get to your Lions!" Allura tells them needlessly.

The others are already changing into their armour. The excited hum of the Lions buzzes in the back of their minds, loud and insistent. They are itching for a fight after the extended period of inactivity.

"... Keith?" comes Hunk's tentative voice from where he's paused with one leg thrust into his armor. "You coming?

Keith blinks, following Hunk's gaze to where his own hand is gripping the edge of the door so hard his knuckles have turned white. He forces himself to let go, tucking his hands into his armpits instead. "I, uh..."

The other Paladins pause in various states of undress, turning to look at him. Keith feels his cheeks blaze under the attention. He suddenly finds himself glad of the fact that Shiro isn't there to witness his mortification.

"I think I'll be more useful on the ground," he says, lamely.

"What?" Lance cries out. "Stop joking around, man. Shiro says that place is swarming with Galra. Suit up."

"No," Keith says, trying to sound more sure of himself. "The Galra base is down on that planet. It'll have shields and sentry fighter ships protectin' it. Attacking it from above isn't the best course of action."

"What're you saying?" Pidge asks, tugging on one bracer.

"I'm saying we need to infiltrate it from the ground."

"Perhaps Keith is right," Allura says thoughtfully. "Going in with our Lions may not be the best way to win this fight."

"No," Keith says quickly. "You guys take the Lions. There are too many fighters up here for the Atlas to handle alone. With everyone distracted by the air battle, the base'll be left defenseless. I'll go in alone and disable the ground munitions."

"I don't like it," Hunk says.

"It'll be fine," Keith says. "With my Blade training, I'll be more effective down there than up here." The lie comes easily to him, or at least, more easily than telling them he hardly has the mental reserves to stand upright right now, much less pilot a Lion.

"And what if we need Voltron?" Lance asks. "Can't make a robot without a head, ya know?"

"We'll take care of it before it comes to that." Keith tries to make his voice sound decisive, strong.

"Well, okay..." Pidge says, sounding unsure. "I still think we'll be safer from the sky."

Keith leaves without giving the others a chance to protest, already tugging his T-shirt out of his pants to change into his Blade uniform.

***

The smoke makes it hard to see. Keith squints around the battlefield, one arm raised in front of his eyes more out of reflex than any actual effect. Nearby, another bomb explodes, kicking up sand and foliage and bits of metal debris. The wind of the detonation whips long fronds of sparse, dry grass against his legs.

Around him, the field is littered with pieces of Galra sentries - an arm here, a leg there - while high above, laser fire echoes between the roar of the Lions.

From higher still, the Atlas' ventral cannons blast holes in the Galra base with booms loud enough to shake the ground.

Keith's lungs are burning. It feels like he's been fighting for days on end, though it can't have been more than a few hours. He slips behind a piece of ruined wall, crouching low to take stock of his injuries. He's bleeding from more than a few cuts. One is deep enough to leave a strip of the Blade uniform peeling over his collarbone and chest, just revealing the tip of the rose.

The disease takes a worse toll on his body. His limbs feel heavy with more than fatigue, his mind slow to react. His years of Mamora training are all that brought him this far alive - if it weren't for his reflexes, he'd have fallen prey to the sentries hours ago.

He leans back against the wall, forcing himself to take deep breaths. His hand opens and closes around the hilt of his sword, fingers cramping.

A scuffling footstep is all the warning he gets before a Galra sentry appears out of the smoke right on top of him, swinging at him with an emptied rifle. He dodges just in time, bringing his blade up in a jerky, ungraceful motion to cut off the sentry's head.

He doesn't notice it was a distraction until it's too late.

His blade doesn't even complete its arc before he finds himself surrounded by Galra soldiers. They have him pinned down, leering at him from behind laser rifles and swords. Keith whips this way and that, blade raised, but deep down, he knows there's no way he'll come out of this one alive. His vision swims, and he stumbles slightly when he swipes his sword at one of the soldiers.

In some ways, it's a blessing. He'll die here on this empty planet, just another victim of the Galra reign of terror, and maybe his friends will search for him, but they stand little chance of finding a body among this debris. They stand no chance at all of finding out about the disease, about the love that consumed him, little by little, until there was nothing left.

An incredible roar from above shakes him back to the present. Everyone looks up, but Keith already knows what he'll see - he'd recognize that sound anywhere. The Black Lion impacts the ground with the force of a meteor, sending up a spray of mud. It roars again, whipping around. Its massive claws rip up the ground, always careful to avoid Keith, stepping over and around him in its dance of devastation. High above his head, its blue eyes are nothing more than an ominous glow in the gray. Where its giant jaws snap at the air, smoke parts in swirls, revealing flashes of black and white. Galra soldiers fly in a circle away from Keith in almost comic arcs, their screams disappearing into the fog.

Keith sags to his knees in exhaustion and relief, letting his blade drag along the ground. "You came for me..." he murmurs, sending the thought along the pathway of his connection with Black as well, knowing it will be heard even if his voice gets lost in the chaos.

It's not until Black answers him that he realizes he was wrong.

Black didn't come for him. Not alone, anyway.

The Lion's head swivels around and down, until it's level with Keith on the ground. The massive jaw opens in invitation, and a voice says, "Get in! Hurry!"

And the voice isn't in Keith's head. It doesn't bypass his ears and thrum at the base of his skull, imprinted straight onto his thoughts. That's because it isn't Black's voice - it's Shiro's.

He stares at the Lion's head in a daze, rooted to the spot. Dimly, he registers the ongoing miasma of laser fire and smog and the screams of the dying around him, but his immediate surroundings are made up entirely of enormous silver claws and a tail that curls around him protectively, and he feels safe.

Eventually, Shiro himself appears at the top of the ramp inside the Lion's mouth, frowning at Keith in concern. The Atlas crew uniform stretches tightly over his muscular chest, hugging his hips and thighs in all the right places. The seams enhance the lines of his biceps. Every shift of muscle is visible in the tight uniform, every curve accentuated. The high-cut neckline creates the perfect frame for his square jaw.

"--you stand?"

Keith blinks. Shiro is somehow next to him now, hands on his shoulders, tugging at him.

"What?" Keith says eloquently.

"Can you stand?" Shiro repeats.

Keith gets to his feet with some difficulty, swaying into Shiro. Around them, the high-pitched whine of laser-fire is a constant reminder that the battle is still raging. Shiro pushes him to hurry, and they make their way up the ramp and into the cool sanctuary of the Black Lion as quick as they can.

Keith never gives up. The one thing that's been a constant in his life until now has been his absolute stubborn refusal to concede defeat. Yet as his stomach plunges with the G-force of Black's takeoff, he becomes hyper-aware of every little cut and bruise, his fatigue and the constant burning pain of the rose. And he decides that, maybe just this once, it's okay to let the others take care of things.

Gratefully, he closes his eyes, and slumps into a dreamless sleep.

***

"Keith." Shiro's voice swims through the darkness of Keith's unconscious mind, tugging him slowly back to awareness.

"Keith."

Slowly, Keith pries sticky eyes open. Shiro's face is nothing more than a blur in front of him, his hair a silver halo tinted purple by the lights in Black's hull. Keith swallows, his throat sandy and his tongue a few sizes bigger than it should be. Every wound from the battle is an exclamation mark on his body, demanding his attention.

Shiro tucks a strand of hair away from his face, and though his fingers are blessedly cool, they leave a trail of fire behind them. Keith squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head away slightly.

Shiro drops his hands as though burned. "Keith. What's going on with you?" His voice is soft and tinged with worry.

"Nothin'," he replies, looking away.

"It's not nothing." Shiro says with an edge to his voice. "You've lost weight. You haven't been eating. You hardly leave your room, and when you do, you either pick a fight with everyone or refuse to say a word."

And Keith doesn't want to have this conversation right now. Or ever. And especially not with Shiro, not when he can't even begin to explain to him that _he_ is the cause of all Keith's problems.

So he says, instead, "I said I'm fine," and crosses his arms.

To his surprise, one metal hand and one human one grip his wrists, forcing them open. He looks up at Shiro in surprise to be met by a stern frown, and he doesn't think he's ever seen Shiro look this angry at him.

"Sometimes you just... shut down, you know?" Shiro says, and the exasperation and frustration is clear in his voice. "And I have no idea how to get through to you. It's like you just go away. Somewhere in your own little world where no one can reach you. How am I supposed to help you when you won't let me in?"

Keith swallows, staring at him silently. His heartbeat kicks up, pounding painfully in his throat.

Shiro sighs, letting go of his arms. "Things can't go on like this, Keith. We're all worried about you. But we can't help you if you won't let us. Let _me_. Keith..." He shifts closer, reaching up to touch Keith's cheek lightly, "Just... Talk to me."

But Keith doesn't hear those last words. The touch of Shiro's fingers on his face send him reeling, the world spinning dangerously around him. He reaches up to place his hand over Shiro's, and for one blissful moment, all that exists is the place where their palms meet. Keith's fingers trail lightly over the back of Shiro's hand, watching as his face slowly recedes.

And then he feels his hand drop as everything goes black around him.

***

When he wakes up again, he's in his room on the Atlas. His body feels heavy, and a fog has settled over his mind. He's wrapped in soft blankets up to his chin, and the lights are just bright enough to see by, casting everything in a peaceful orange glow. When he swallows, his throat still hurts, but less than before. All his other aches and pains have faded, too. The rose has settled into an ever-present throb; not the sharp, stinging pain from before, but rather a kind of deep pain, far beneath the surface of his skin.

He can't decide if that's a good or a bad thing.

He coughs weakly, pressing his head back into the pillows when it sets of a headache hammering behind his eyes.

The soft rustle of cloth makes him realise he's not alone. The bed dips as Shiro sits down next to him, pressing one large palm against his forehead. "Hey," he says softly, "You're awake."

Keith manages a kind of grunt in reply.

"How are you feeling?" Shiro has that look on his face again, like he can't decide if he's worried or angry.

Keith just looks at him, hoping his eyes can accurately convey his level of misery.

Shiro drops his hand into his lap, and his gaze to follow. He's quiet for a while, but Keith knows him well enough to know it's only because he's thinking of how to say what he wants to say next. Keith isn't in any state to start making conversation from his end, so he settles for studying Shiro's profile in the silence, the strong lines of his jaw in contrast to the gentle curve of his lips, his straight nose and sharp cheekbones, the delicate slope of his eyes.

Eventually, after what seems like hours but was really no more than a few moments, Shiro says, "I saw the rose."

Keith goes cold. He blinks a few times, staring at Shiro like a deer caught in the headlights. And then his fight-or-flight response kicks in, adrenaline surging into his limbs like pins and needles. He pushes himself upright, the blanket pooling around his waist.

It's only then that he notices he's not wearing a shirt. His wounds have been bandaged, the grime of the battlefield carefully cleaned.

Fleetingly, he wonders if Shiro was the one who undressed him, who patched him up like this - but then, who else would it be?

Shiro glances at him, his eyes going straight to Keith's chest, where the angry lashes of the rose tattoo redden the skin surrounding it. Two petals remain, clinging for dear life to the husk of a bud almost obscured entirely by long and angry black thorns.

"Keith. Why didn't you say anything?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Keith scratches out. "'Hey guys. I contracted an incurable disease. Guess you'll have to find a new Black Paladin. Bye?'"  
  


Shiro gives him a look that says he doesn't find Keith's attempt at humor funny at all. Self-consciously, Keith tugs the blanket up to cover his chest. Shiro's prosthetic floats over, pulling it down again. Keith looks up at him in surprise.

Shiro is looking at him with an expression usually reserved solely for battle. Keith fights the urge to shrink away from it, meeting his eyes defiantly.

"You're dying, Keith," Shiro says, almost too quickly, like he had to force himself to speak the words. "You're dying, and you didn't even give us the chance to try and help you. After all this time, you still don't trust us. You still don't trust _me_." He's still gripping Keith's blanket in his prosthetic hand.

"It's not that," Keith says.

"Then what?" Shiro demands. "Keith. If it's not that, then why are you still shutting me out?"

"Because you're the cause," Keith says. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels drained, as if they contained all the strength he still had left in his body. He jerks his gaze away from the shock on Shiro's face, glaring at the door.

"... Me?" comes the soft inquiry after a while, and Keith hates the way Shiro sounds in that moment, so confused, so small.

Keith's stomach churns.

After what feels like an eternity, he feels his hands being scooped into Shiro's, wrapped in his warmth. It doesn't hurt as much as it did before. Keith decides it's probably a bad thing. He's heard people say you stop feeling pain just before you die. He watches the curl of Shiro's fingers, the glint of the soft light on the white and silver of his prosthetic.

"Why didn't you just say something? If you'd just talked to me, all of this could've been avoided."

The words make Keith's eyes snap up. Shiro's eyes are earnest, his face set in lines of regret and hope.

And it makes Keith angry. Of course Shiro would say something like this. Of course he'd try to help Keith. That's what he does - he saves Keith. Always has. This is no different. Keith knows it comes from a good place, but that Shiro would lie about this of all things, about something as massive, as life-changing as this...

Keith pushes his hands away, shifting heavy feet to the floor. He levers himself up with some effort despite Shiro's protests, backing away from him. "Don't say that."

"Keith--"

"Don't you say that. Not that."

"I'm not lying." Shiro gets up from the bed as well, and they face each other across the narrow room.

"You are!" Keith says, and it comes out louder than he intended. He shoves a pointed finger at Shiro's face. "This is what you do. You save people. You think you can save me by saying you love me. But it doesn't work like that! You can't erase fifteen years of... of... _wanting_ just like that."

"It's not a lie," Shiro says patiently. He doesn't move, keeping a careful distance between them. "I love you, Keith, and I've lied about things before, but not this."

"Of course you love me," Keith gestures broadly, his heart pounding, "You love everyone."

He has no idea how Shiro keeps his voice so level and calm when he says, "No. I'm _in_ love with you."

And that's what breaks Keith. He lunges at Shiro with a roar, surprising himself. His body acts entirely without his consent, rushing forward and trying to strike at him. But he's weak, and slow, and Shiro catches the blow easily, twisting him around bodily and pinning him on his back on the bed with ease.

Keith pants heavily, glaring up at Shiro and struggling ineffectively against the strong arms holding him down.

And then Shiro leans down and kisses him.

The world stops.

Shiro's lips are soft, but insistent. His scent overwhelms Keith, warmer than the blanket he'd been wrapped up in. Every point where his body touches Keith's is a firebrand. The kiss sends a shockwave racing down his spine, coiling low in his belly. The pain of the rose melts away like dew in the sunrise, the fatigue and ache of his muscles fading like a bad dream. Where Shiro's touch had brought him so much pain before, now there is only the pleasure of being touched, and the need to be touched even more.

When Shiro pulls away, Keith gasps for breath, and it's like the first time he's ever really breathed. He swallows hard, staring up at Shiro with wide eyes. His hands clutch at Shiro's shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt.

Shiro's smile is gentle, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He tucks a strand of hair behind Keith's ear lovingly, then trails the pads of his fingers over his cheek, down his neck, and onto his chest. It makes Keith shiver all over.

When he taps the spot over Keith's heart lighty, Keith's eyes follow. The rose is gone. The curse is lifted. The rest of Keith's life stretches before him, a long line of days with its starting point beneath Shiro's finger.

Shiro smiles and says, "Believe me now?"

Keith feels better than he has in weeks. Possibly better than he ever has in his whole life. Wonder and disbelief war with elation and relief inside him. Fifteen years of wanting, of waiting. Fifteen years of knowing his dream would always be out of reach, of burying the pain of yearning for it anyway. And the last month of despairing that he would die without ever knowing what it felt like to kiss Shiro.

He can't help but smile back.

"Maybe you should kiss me again just to be sure."


End file.
